


John Meets Sherlock’s Parents (Again)

by Meretseger68



Series: Always John [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 154 is a real thing, Acceptance, Apologies to Jo Malone, Cologne, Family, First time (?), Let's not mention Mary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meretseger68/pseuds/Meretseger68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes John back to his parents and has a surprising suggestion for him on the way there</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Meets Sherlock’s Parents (Again)

“Sherlock, are you sure about this?” Night had fallen on the drive to the country. There were no street lights to illuminate the tall figure beside his shorter companion as they walked up the path.

“Of course I’m sure John.” The old fashioned bell pull made a discreet sound somewhere behind the painted wall of the cottage. John found himself standing closer, looking for the heat rolling off from the long coat. They were a long way from the orange glow of the city.

“But what if they don’t … ahh, Mrs Holmes how nice to see you again.” Parade stance, best behaviour. As his stomach did a nervous roll he hoped that everyone would be on best behaviour.

“Just call me Catherine.” Twinkly eyes briefly fixed John with a gimlet stare before turning to her youngest son. “Sherlock, be a dear and take your bags up to your room.” There was no hint of it being a question. Or a suggestion. A warm hand efficiently stripped the doctor’s coat, hung it up and grasped him by the elbow to split the pair up. “I’m sure John would like a drink before supper. I remember your driving young man.”

It hadn’t been the nerve-rackingly efficient drive that had made John so unsettled. Or even the lack of conversation as Sherlock withdrew into his head as his hands guided the black Land Rover out of London. It had been the heat of the sudden kiss, the unexpected passion that pinned John back against the passenger seat before they set off again after a brief stop off at motorway services.

Was this Sherlock becoming more comfortable with kissing, or the idea of being more demonstrative … or John discovering that his boyfriend had a kink about being (vaguely) in public when he did? There had definitely been movement under the Belstaff this time. The curious hand that disappeared in the shadows had confirmed that even as Sherlock had moaned into John’s open mouth. The sound had been pure filth. The words when they had finally resumed their journey had been enough to simultaneously stupefy and excite.“I want you to have me John. This weekend. I want to know what it feels like.”

That body. Hidden these weeks (these years? John was at a loss – really, how long had he wanted his genius, git, wonderful, annoying, alien, angelic flatmate?). Hidden. Covered. Other than that one slip … they’d shied away from it, so many things not said, so much that John wanted to say. And now? No wonder John wondered and struggled, dry mouthed, at the prospect offered in the gathering dark.

Supper (dinner, translated John to himself) passed in the way of family meals all around the world. No one brought up the elephant in the room except, in this instance, when Catherine asked John to retell the story of The Elephant in the Room. Sherlock was very polite, every please and thank you in place, his smile like quicksilver and his appetite forced. John was almost beginning to relax when Catherine poo-pooed his offer of assistance and cleared the plates away (a raised brow and pursed lips her only comment on the artfully rearranged food left on a certain plate). No signal was given but Sherlock dutifully followed his mother almost immediately and muttered something half heard about making coffee.

“So. John.” Mr Holmes – Sigur – cleared his throat in a significant way. “You know there’s only the one bed in Sherlock’s old room? He didn’t want us to make up another room … or to move the ‘put you up’ in with him.”

“Yes sir.” John sat up straighter, ready for ‘what are your intentions toward my daughter?’ speech. God, it had been a long time since he’d had to do anything like this. “Good, just so long as you know. I always thought the en-suite was a bit small so you’ll have to take turns, but I’m sure you’ll be fine in the bed. We’ve been waiting quite a while for someone else to make use of it with him.” Holmes senior gave the same crooked grin as his youngest son. “I’m actually quite pleased it’s you. I know there was all the bother … ahem … last Christmas … yes, well.” The old man took an interest in his shoes for slightly too long before looking back up. “Anyway, what I meant to say … Sherlock always seemed so happy talking about the things you did together, solving crimes and such, chasing criminals …”

“Nearly getting killed …”

“Yes, that too. And being his friend. To be honest, I think your friendship was the best thing to happen to him. And now. Well, I know I’m far too old to have an opinion but …” The little grin became a full on smile – there it was, the source of the Holmes charm. “He doesn’t really have much of a clue about the practical aspects. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes sir. It’s taken a while for both of us to get to this. Hurting him is the last thing I want to do.” John looked at the white haired man in his button down and comfortable cardigan, glasses absentmindedly on a chain round his neck. Suddenly it was all very real. More than winding up Mycroft, more than shocking Sally Donovan … this man was a view of Sherlock in forty something years (what was that saying about looking at a girl’s mother to see what she would turn into?). Forty years. Would they still be together? Would they be happy like Sherlock’s parents … or one of them dead and the other a bitter old drunk like his own? Oh god, what if this was just a pha …

“Oh don’t worry about it being a phase.” John snapped back into the room. Whatever else, Sigur was no slouch in the observational game. “I could see early on that he was never interested in girls other than as an intellectual exercise. I know he had some admirers at University but no one he trusted enough to … ahem … well, you know. It was a non-subject and we never pushed it. And, now … here we are.” The briefly raised eyebrows seemed to be the seal of approval on the conversation as Catherine and number three son re-joined them with coffee and, John noted appreciatively, brandies all round.

The snug was warm and cosy. The brandies had been topped up – rather generously – by Holmes senior as the evening passed. Conversation was gentle, this and that, vague family news and how was Anthea the last time John had seen her? The normality was surreal, the casual mention of Anthea in conversation gave the doctor pause. To this apparently normal and undoubtedly affectionate couple Anthea was just their granddaughter. They didn’t see her often enough but what grandparent does?

John noticed that Sherlock said little. Oh, he filled in the little pauses where an affirmative noise was needed, but most of the time, most of the time … oh God, most of the time he just looked at John with puppy dog eyes and held his hand tight between their bodies. Catherine and Sigur said their goodnights and eventually left their son and his lover to contemplate the dying embers in the stove. Nerves built in the silence, both wanted to but neither was certain about the first move. How old were they? Surely no need for this anxiety.

“Should we?” Blond eyebrows indicated the twisting staircase to the left of the fireplace. And there was the hesitation – brief but John knew what he was looking for now. He looked at the hand gripping his. The whitened knuckles did not belong to a man at ease with his situation. “I know what you said before, in the car. We don’t have to do anything. The idea … the idea is amazing but we don’t need to rush. There’s nothing that has to happen.”

“I am yours John. I always have been. Always you.” As if the deep voice and words were enough to make up for the struggle that John knew the younger man had with just being himself.

“And you will still be in the morning. Sherlock, I know you still think it’s just transport, but I don’t want to hurt you by doing something that you’re not ready for. I don’t want us to do something just because you’ve decided it’s appropriate to do now … you actually have to enjoy it too you know.” Foreheads together, noses tip to tip they shared the same air and John glanced into quicksilver eyes suddenly confused and lost. The eyes shimmered and a blink was enough to dislodge a fat tear. John caught the tell-tale droplet on a fingertip and held it up as evidence. “Too much has gone on in that head of yours. How about we start with just seeing how you feel about being touched?”

≡≡≡

Soft rapping on a door. “Boys? Are you awake? It’s quite a nice day out there, we’ve decided to go for a walk.” John blinked awake, startled, and then remembered where he was. “Yes. Well. Sherlock knows where everything is. We’ll be in the pub later if you want to catch up and have some lunch with us.” Another pause. John looked up – of course Sherlock was awake. “Shall we say one-ish?”

“Yes mother. I’m sure even I will be presentable for the Scold’s Bridle by then.” Sherlock’s smile was meant for his doctor, but it could be heard in his reply to his parent and it softened what would have been a sarcastic edge. A finger was put across John’s lips and they both listened for the distant slam of the old back door.

“Sleep much?” The dark head shook. “Mind palace?” The curls dipped in the affirmative. “Recalling or deleting?” Sherlock didn’t need to say anything, John could see the blush on his cheek. The blond stretched up and ghosted the briefest kiss on the end of Sherlock’s nose before sliding out of bed and making use of the en-suite. One major hurdle behind them and he was able to take more notice of the contents of the small room.

Ten minutes later a thoughtful Watson sat back down on the bed next to the lump that was his apparently dozing boyfriend and finished towel drying his hair. He thought he smelled rather nice; not quite cold pressed angel tears but something else familiar from Sherlock’s range of hand labelled potions back at 221B. A hand slid out from under the bedding (ridiculous thread count again, John was definitely getting very used to the feeling of that) and along his thigh. Not asleep then.

“Sherlock?” The hand stopped moving – Jerry caught sneaking the cheese by Tom, or Sylvester trying not to be spotted by Tweetie Pie. “Sherlock, why do the toiletries in there look and smell so similar to what you have at home?” The lanky lump may have tensed up a little, the exploratory hand withdrew.

“Production run.” The muffled words were clearly meant to explain everything, but they told John nothing. He stared at the stray curls that had escaped from the top edge of the duvet; if he left it long enough the clever git wouldn’t be able to help himself, he just had to explain. John started to count to himself. He got to nine before there was a small ‘harrumph’ (surely he was hot under there?). “Consulting Perfumer just doesn’t have the same ring as Consulting Detective.”

“Consulting Perfumer?” Okay, that was too much. John pulled the duvet back to reveal the rather warm looking (embarrassed?) face beneath.

“I’ll have you know I’m considered to have a very good nose. My Oud and Bergamot is highly regarded in some circles. Very popular.” Sherlock sniffed and tried to look down said nose in his best haughty manner. Given their relative positions it didn’t really work. John laughed and leant over to kiss the idiot but found, instead, that the idiot just seemed to want to breathe in the scent of his neck. A sound accompanied the breathing, a slow, rumbling purr that was felt at much as heard. It reminded John of the previous night, he didn’t quite understand the mechanism but it seemed that Sherlock’s larynx was connected to John’s arousal. “Mmmm, I wondered how 154 would be on you. The base note of vetyver suits you so well. Really, really … well.”

Sherlock pushed John away. He looked rather flushed. Rather … uncomfortable once he realised that he was losing his cotton cocoon. He mumbled something about a dressing gown and there may have been a ‘please’ involved. Ah, on the robe hook on the bedroom door. “You want me to cover up? Is there a problem today?” John really couldn’t work out how that mind turned. Another muttered comment and a large hand took the robe. The slide out from under the duvet and into the robe was done smoothly and efficiently as Sherlock disappeared into the adjoining shower room.

One step forward, one step – sideways? John listened to the sounds of the en-suite and waited for whichever version of Sherlock would come back to him. The bedroom wasn’t cold, it wasn’t cramped, it was just full of Sherlock – or full of hints of what Sherlock (when did he stop being William?) would become. Books everywhere. Books on everything (even the bloody solar system). Well-thumbed books (apart from those on the solar system) in cases all around the walls. The only gaps were for a large wardrobe and matching chest of drawers (books piled on top, of course) and the small window at the far end of the room.

Last night the violinist’s hands had taken the doctor’s and guided them across moonbeam pale flesh. Last night had been vague silhouettes and gentle reassurance in the shadows. Last night had been … Sherlock thrusting into John’s fist and coming with a gasp that seemed torn from his soul, John making soft crooning noises as he cleaned them both up and then settled the apparently shell shocked detective back in the bed.

Today meant daylight. Today meant seeing. John closed his eyes against the winter light invading the room. What was so wrong with seeing that whip-chord tight body? Trust Sherlock to make things even more complicated that they needed to be. Still, here they were. John in Sherlock’s bed and his parents out of the house. Of course. At home. This would have been the first place to bring a ~~girl~~ boyfriend back if Sherlock had bothered with that stage when he was growing up. John tried to think back but those first excitements seemed so long ago … they were the past of a different person.

Watson felt old. He stretched out on the virgin bed and wondered, not for the first time, what Sherlock saw in him. Normally the few years between them wouldn’t amount to much, but this wasn’t just years … this was a chasm of experience. In the dark Sherlock had been so young, so uncertain of himself. His lack of a script had been all the more obvious with the emphasis on his own pleasure.

Lips brushed against his own as the mattress dipped slightly to accommodate his lover. “What are you thinking?”

“We don’t have to do this.” He couldn’t open his eyes. He could smell the same scent redoubled on the slim frame beside him and he wanted so much … so much to … “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. There’s no rush …” heart racing, need building at the feeling of warmth against his flank. Movement on the bed and soft sound of material being discarded. A hand against his chest, an intake of breath coinciding with a fingertip brushing against a nipple.

“I enjoyed what we did last night. We could start like that again and see what happens.” Sherlock’s voice was deep, moist exhalations across an over-sensitive ear. Even to himself, John’s swallow sounded loud.

“You’ll tell me if anything is too much?” Who was he kidding? “Just tell me to stop, or wait, or more … or … anything.”

“Anything.” If the doctor hadn’t been lost before that one word was enough to seal his fate.

≡≡≡

Two men go into a quiet village pub for Sunday dinner. No drama, no fanfare. No one’s business but their own if they happen to walk along hand in hand and stop before the door to grin shyly to each other. They join an older couple sat at what seems to be their regular table. When the old man goes to the bar to place their order the landlady laughs and makes a comment about the child sized serving ordered for one of the meals … the staff know the family well enough to increase the portions so that someone will be able to steal food with impunity.

The Scold’s Bridle is a nicer pub than the name would suggest. It is at the heart of a village tucked away from the motorways and bustle of the city. Given a few days warning even a nice pub in a quiet little village can get things in ‘just in case’. When the bottle of champagne arrives in the ice bucket at the end of the meal the label is discreet and the taste divine. It is unusual enough to catch the eye of many of the other patrons surprised further when matching flutes arrive for each of them.

The old man stands and looks around the old room, the oak furniture, the York stone floor he’s known for so long … the faces of people who’ve been his neighbours for years and some new faces of people maybe looking for a story to take back home from this little backwater.

“This may seem a little unusual to some of you, but those who know us know that we are sometimes an unusual family. Some of you know my youngest son, Sherlock, and some of you have heard of the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Some of you may have seen recent news reports or gossip on that internet. I hope you will all join me in raising a glass and wishing my son well. My son and his partner …”

Sigur is joined by his wife and she raises her glass to the two men sat opposite her, “To John and Sherlock.” The words are a spell cast over the room. Everyone repeats them and smiles and toasts the proud, embarrassed, shocked, beaming, happy couple uncomfortable yet shining in the spotlight. In that moment the fear passes and in that moment nothing else matters. It is just John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John.

“To John and Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long to post. I knew what I wanted to do and had most of it done and then I just ... stopped. Illness shouldn't really be an excuse but I had come to a complete halt in November and I'm just about starting to get going again.  
> Thanks to anyone for reading. I want to do more with my asexual Sherlock with dermagraphism but for now he is safe inside a subtle cloud of 154 (or Oud and Bergamot if he gets really stressed - it works for me).


End file.
